Chapter VIII

Ere pious lips could form a prayer,
Or feeble ones a cry,
The heaving sea had ceased to bear
That gallant ship on high.
Gone were the lovely and the brave,
Old ocean was alone,
And only gave to mark their grave
A bubble and a moan.

A VISION.

She hovers round my dreams!
Like the soft early beams,
When day-light through my lattice streams,
Thoughts of her beauty greet my waking hours;
Like fragrance stolen by zephyr from the flowers,
Or odors from the spice-trees pressed by showers
Which fall in summer time
In that delicious clime,—
Told in melodious chime
By Eastern poets—where the bulbul sings
And flutters near the rose his charmed wings.—
On my delightful sense her memory steals,
And the deep fountain of my heart unseals!
And ofttimes, Fancy, gentle sprite, reveals
Her winning smile, her form of artless grace,
So like to life, so perfect and so fair,
That, with a magic pencil, I could trace
Her picture on the air!
Yes! Fancy is the Ariel of my mind—
And I, like Prospero, in a lonely isle
Far distant from the world’s dominions,
My solitary days and nights beguile
In sending out, swift as careering wind,
My messenger with starry pinions—
That he may speed and find
The shapes and hues of beauty which adorn
The land, the unreal land where he was born!
Oh then, what strange enchantment I behold!
A Fairy palace, built of pearls and gold
Upon a slope of emerald. Myriads swarm
About the portal—myriad creatures bright
As the intensest light
Of phosphor flame—small as the motes that rise,
When the sun’s beam comes warm
From its far throne in the uncurtained skies.
Among the elves and fairies moves their queen;
Tell me, dear Fancy, delicate Ariel—say,
Have I not oft a like expression seen,
An eye, a brow, illumined by a ray
As pure and soft? Oh, take the misty screen
That hides the vision from my view away!
Alas! the whole has faded,
And sober Truth has shaded
The radiance of shapes and hues ideal;
Yet, in _that_ loveliest face,
My wakened mind can trace
How perfect a resemblance to the real!

“I’LL THINK OF THEE, LOVE!”

I’ll think of thee, love, when the landscape is still,
And the soft mist is floating from valley and hill;
When the mild, rosy beam of the morning I see,
I’ll think of thee, dearest, and only of thee!

I’ll think of thee, love, when the first sound of day
Scares the bright-pinioned bird from its covert away;
For the world’s busy voice has no music for me—
I’ll think of thee, dearest, and only of thee!

I’ll think of thee, love, when the dark shadows sleep
On the billows that roll o’er the emerald deep:
Like the swift-speeding gales, every thought then will be—
I’ll think of thee, dearest, and only of thee!

I’ll think of thee, dearest, while thou art afar,
And I’ll liken thy smile to the night’s fairest star:
As the ocean-shell breathes of its home in the sea—
So in absence my spirit will murmur of thee!
P. B.

_Boston, July, 1836._

COTTAGE LIFE.

Oh! happy cottage life,
Far from foul gain, and rude ambitious strife!
And oh thrice happy ye,
Who innocent and free
Dwell in your village homes with plenty rife!

Happy to watch the morn
’Mid rosy clouds in the rich orient born!
Happy to fill the pail,
In some sequestered vale,
Or spin the fleece, or shell the golden corn!

Happy your friend to rear,
Some snowy lamb, or weanling heifer dear—
For they will ne’er forget,
When once their love is set,
But will your footsteps follow, far and near.

Happy to live at ease
’Mid rural blessings, and domestic peace—
Thrice happy, when ye die,
Beside your sires to lie
In the old churchyard, ’neath the ancestral trees.

THE GUARDIAN WATCHER.

My little girl sleeps on my arm all night,
And seldom stirs, save when, with playful wile,
I bid her turn and put her lip to mine—
Which, in her sleep, she does; and, sometimes, then,
Half muttered through her slumbers, she affirms,
Her love for me is boundless; and I take
The little imp, and, closer in my arms,
Assure her by my action—for my lips
Yield me no utterance then—that, in my heart,
She is the treasured jewel. Tenderly,
Hour after hour, with no desire of sleep,
I watch about that large amount of hope,
Until the stars wane, and the yellow moon
Walks forth into the night.
S.

INTERROGATORIES.

The stars, dear Fanny, were out last night,
And the moon was bright on high,
And the silent earth, by the clear cold light,
Looked up to the dark blue sky,—
But the fairest spot on her face so white
Was the grove with the brook hard by;
Can you tell, dear Fanny, what might it be,
That the stars looked down on so pleasantly?

There stood two forms by that moonlit grove.
In the night-air damp and cold,
And one was lovely and meet for love,
And one was of manly mould;
To the winking stars, in their arch above,
Was a gentle secret told.
Can you say, sweet Fanny, what might it be
Was whispered last night so tenderly?

A sound—yet not of a spoken word,
But softer and sweeter in tone,—
Like the quick low note of a startled bird
That sleeps on its nest alone,—
Once and again that sound was heard,
As of lips together grown.
Can you guess, dear Fanny, what might it be—
The sound that faltered so tenderly?

I turned away with a sad, chilled heart,
From that happiest spot below,—
For I felt that I was a thing apart,
There was none to love me so;
And the _one_ for whom my soul founts start
Is froward and cold, you know.
Can you think, sweet Fanny, who may it be
That my thoughts _will_ dwell on so heavily?

I sometimes dream of a happier lot,
Of a heart that is all my own,—
Of a quiet hearth, and a vine-clad cot,
Where peace may dwell alone,—
Where sorrow and bitterness enter not,
Or vanish at love’s soft tone;
And all last night I was dreaming of you—
Do you know, dear Fanny, if dreams prove true?

GNADENHUTTEN.

About the middle of the last century, the Moravians, so much distinguished by their exertions for the welfare of the most hapless portion of their species, established a missionary station at the northern base of the Blue Mountains, in what is now Northampton county, Pennsylvania, a few miles from the beautiful scenery of Mauch Chunk. This station they appropriately termed, “Gnadenhutten,” or “The House of Grace.”

The savage race which then inhabited those regions were divided in sentiment with respect to their benevolent visitors. Some regarded them with veneration; while others, and they the more numerous portion, looked upon them with a malignant suspicion, which resulted in a midnight attack, when the establishment was destroyed by fire and the inhabitants, male and female, young and old, butchered!

’Twas eve, the balmy breath of flowers,
Came sweetly floating on the breeze;
The recent rain-drops gemmed the bowers,
And glistened on the leafy trees.

And far into the eastern sky
The growling thunder-cloud had gone,
Upon whose breast of inky dye,
The radiant bow of promise shone.

The setting sun beamed broad and bright,
And far the lengthening shadows cast;
On Gnadenhutten’s tower-crown’d height,
He lingered long to look his last.

And never had his parting ray,
To light a lovelier scene been given;
Since first he trod his radiant way,
Across the azure vault of heaven.

For not on hill, and vale, and stream,
And glittering leaf and sacred tower
Alone, was shed his evening beam—
It lit devotion’s hallowed hour:

For there was heard the solemn bell,
That told the hour of rest and prayer;
There sweetly rose the anthem’s swell,
And holy words were spoken there.

And o’er the heaven-directing page,
The man of God enraptured hung;
While wisdom’s aphorisms sage,
Distilled like honey from his tongue.

And there the forest-warrior stood,
With bow unstrung and humbled pride;
With longing soul for heavenly food,
The dark-brown matron pressed his side.

And tottering age, and vigorous youth,
And childhood with its steadfast gaze,
Heard wondrous words of heavenly truth;
And knelt in prayer and joined in praise.

And O! a holy look was given,
To him who bent that book above;
His brow was bright with light from heaven;
His soul with heaven’s all brightening love.

Nor was it that he loved to roam,
He crossed the pathless ocean o’er;
Nor yet to find a fairer home,
Left he his own loved native shore.

It was to point the forest sons,
Up to the radiant throne of God;
And show those dark, benighted ones,
The way through Christ’s atoning blood;

That far into the desert wild,
From the refined abodes of men,
With his loved wife and only child,
He sought that distant forest glen.

That matron’s brow was young and fair,
Half hid ’neath locks of golden sheen;
And lovely as a thing of air,
Was little rosy Wilhelmine.

With wavy curls of flaxen hair;
And forehead rising pure and high;
And breast as mountain’s snow-wreath fair;
And eyes like stars in winter sky.

Buoyant, and beautiful, and bright,
A being made of smiles and bliss;
With soul too full of heaven’s own light,
To stay in such a world as this.

And soon was that immortal flower—
That bud of being, lent not given—
From blighting sin and sorrow’s shower,
Transplanted safe to bloom in heaven.

’Twas night—the sky was cloudless blue,
And all around was hushed and still,
Save paddle of the light canoe,
And wailing of the whippoorwill.

The moon was like a silver thread,
Just sinking in the green wood’s bosom;
And swift from heaven the night-dew sped,
With pearly gifts for leaf and blossom.

And soft as balmy dews of night
Upon the beauteous blossom’s breast,
Came slumber, and her finger light,
On every closing eyelid pressed.

’Twas night—dark night—no sound arose—
The weary eye forgot its weeping;
And wrapt in bonds of bland repose,
The missionary band lay sleeping.

But hark! upon the startled air,
Wild, unexpected whoops arise!—
And the red conflagration’s glare,
Is brightening all the midnight skies!

Up! sleepers, up! awake and fly,
By the dread lamp your foes have lighted—
To the dark green-wood’s bosom hie,
Your homes are gone, your hopes are blighted.

Up! sleepers, up! away, away!
A canopy of smoke is o’er you;
Around you fiery streamers play,
And the dark savage is before you!

Perchance some home-fraught dream of joy,
In slumber’s silken links had bound them;
They wake! ’tis but to hear the cry
Of savage slaughter raging round them!

They wake! ’tis but to mark the arm
Of death above each brow impending;
Vain, vain, the shriek of wild alarm—
And vain the prayer for life ascending.

They died, as holy martyrs die—
Their latest thought to God was given;
Resigned their souls in agony,
To wake in ecstacy in heaven.

And perished all? One mother fled,
Escaping both the brand and arrow;
And to the midnight forest sped,
Weary and weak, in pain and sorrow!

Nor fled alone—in wild distress,
A little one she fondly pressed,
Sleeping in blessed unconsciousness,
Rocked by the throbbings of her breast.

For when the work of death was rife,
’Midst savage yell and dying prayer,
She fearless sought the thickest strife,
And found that little slumberer there.

Trembling beneath a shed she crept—
The babe still hushed upon her bosom—
Restrained each bursting throb, nor wept,
Fearing to wake that slumbering blossom,

And from her lowly hiding-place,
Heard every yell of savage slaughter!
And closer clasped in her embrace,
The babe she deemed her fair-haired daughter.

At length the long night passed away—
The morning rose in all its glory—
But smouldering ruins met his ray,
And corpses cold, and pale, and gory.

A midnight stillness reigned around—
The savage foe had fled afar—
The Lehigh with its moaning sound,
Went wailing by the field of war.

Uprose that matron young and fair,
With trembling limb and beating heart—
Why bursts her wild shriek on the air?
And whence that horror-speaking start?

She gazed upon that infant’s face
With frenzied look and wild despair;
Clasped to her breast, in fond embrace,
An Indian babe lay sleeping there!

Nor pined she long in hopeless grief,
With every bond of being riven;
Death smiling came, a sure relief,
And angels winged her soul to heaven.

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Footnote 1:

Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi.

Footnote 2:

The sisters of Phaeton, whose tears, for the fate of their brother
drowned in the river Eridanus, were metamorphosed into amber,
according to the poets.

Footnote 3:

Eriphyle, the wife of Amphiaraus the prophet, who, bribed by a rich
necklace, prevailed on her husband to be one of the seven chiefs
against Thebes, under Adrastus, although she knew that he was fated to
perish there if he should go—as he in fact did, being swallowed by an
earthquake.

Footnote 4:

Tarpeia. The Roman virgin, who, agreeing to admit the Sabine troops
then besieging the capitol, on condition that she should receive that
which the soldiers wore on their left arms, meaning their golden
bracelets, as the reward of her treachery, was overwhelmed and crushed
to death by their bucklers; which Titus Tatius, their commander,
ordered every warrior to cast upon her as he passed the gate.

Footnote 5:

Quintus Curtius, who devoted himself to his country’s safety, as
described above.

Footnote 6:

Rousseau.

Footnote 7:

“Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand!”
ROMEO AND JULIET.

Footnote 8:

Anawon was a mighty chief under King Philip; and was one of the
bravest and most sagacious warriors among all the tribes.

Footnote 9:

The Indians believe that, when they have a friend murdered, the soul
of that friend cannot rest till they have avenged the death by killing
the murderer or some of his connections.

Footnote 10:

Months.

Footnote 11:

The ocean.

Footnote 12:

Ingenious.

Footnote 13:

The Indian’s god.

Footnote 14:

The Indians call the white people the children of sunrise, because
they came from the east.

Footnote 15:

The arms of Genoa.

Footnote 16:

Christopher Columbus.

Footnote 17:

Eclogue III. of Garcilasso de la Vega.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. 4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=. 5. Denoted superscripts by a caret before a single superscript character, e.g. M^r.